Heaven
by Fading Grace
Summary: In some religions, it is believed that, after death, one returns to one’s perfect state. One relives that moment in which one attains true happiness. WilsonHouse love. Now a collection of drabbles.
1. Heaven

Yes, it's short, but I was watching something and was thinking about Bible study last night. Naturally, 'Bible' somehow coorelates to 'WilsonHouse-ness'. Rated for what you have to assume Wilson is doing.

_

* * *

_

_In some religions, it is believed that, after death, one returns to one's perfect state. One relives that moment in which one attains true happiness._

* * *

He walked up to the wooden door, barely noticing the golden letters reflecting _Dr. James Wilson, oncologist_ back at him. His leg hurt like a bitch, and he was going to get himself a free pass to Vicodinland. He looked for the nice lady who took messages for Wilson, who usually tried to stop him before he just walked in. She wasn't there.

He put his hand on the doorknob, and heard a moan. He froze. Oh, for the love of God, his _receptionist_ was in there? Dammit, Jimmy, try to control yourself. Deciding to just wait, he leaned against the wall and 'stood guard'. It was the least he could do.

Fifteen minutes later, he was really getting uncomfortable. They were still going strong, from the sound of James' moaning, and the receptionist was unusually quiet. She was always so bitchy to him that he had just assumed that she would be a screamer.

Then, down the hall, he saw the pretty little thing herself, carrying a coffee and donut from the clerical lounge. Hmmm. That was odd. Who was Jimmy in there with?

Very, very quietly, he got his answer as James cried out a name.

With that name came the true happiness, and he remembered himself for a moment. Oh, right, he was dead, and God was being a cad and having him relive that stupid mistake of his when he had walked through the stupid wooden door and ruined his and James' friendship. He remembered. This was when he found out that Wilson loved him.

His perfect state was as a cripple. His truest happiness had led to his biggest mistake.

Welcome to Hell, boys and girls.


	2. Writing on the Walls

This has no relation to the first chapter. They are definitely separate. Yep. I never thought I would do this, but, these are drabbles. A _collection_ of them, I daresay. But I like the summary of the first one, so, hell with it, it's staying.

Summary of this one: House likes writing on things. Good plan. HouseWilson. It morphed into almost an epilogue of something else I wrote.

Rating: Low-key. Go with K plus, because swear words burn children's ears.

* * *

No one had gone inside. No one was really planning on it. There were nurses still inside from the night shift, presumably taking care of the people who needed it, but, through the window-façade of the hospital, a whole bunch of those could be seen. And, inside or out, every single person was looking at the windows between the two groups.

The handwriting was scrawled, but reasonably straight, and it was small enough to have to squint from ten feet back. It started from eight feet up – like a six-foot guy had reached up as high as he could – and continued. It had to be read from inside, but, even backwards, words could be strung together.

At the beginning, it said, _I am addicted, a druggie. I know this. I accept this. I'm hooked on painkillers, on alcohol, on attention. Those are old habits, and I have come to terms with my imperfections._

After that, there were just more and more words. It went on forever, almost. Words happened frequently, and caught the eye; '_James T. Kirk', 'Capone', 'Jimmy grin'…_ and, drawing the most attention, '_I love you'_. A woman on the inside had a laptop out, and her fingers were flying across the keys, trying to get it all down.

And here I was, an hour after I was supposed to be in my office, staring from the outside. I could see some of my own patients, no longer caring about me. I couldn't bring myself to approach them; I had to give myself more time to take it in.

Cameron moved closer to me, and, in a whisper, said, "I'm sorry, Wilson. When I said, 'What the hell are you going to do with a hundred markers?' like that, I didn't think…"

I waved her away, and went back to staring and working out the reversed words in my head. _But, logically, everyone has that one thing which will be their downfall, and I've found mine…_

Then, _he_ marched right out of the doors, scowling as though he hadn't written the story of how we had gotten together across the world in florescent orange. "Come on, people, I've got people to waste and money to save."

Everyone sort of shook themselves, looked directly at me, and trickled through the doors, not wanting to touched them and smudge something.

This was insane. Everyone knew.

It was, literally, the most and only romantic thing he had ever done.

I loved him, sometimes, especially when he stayed out all night, told me he was with a hooker, and wrote the long equivalent of a love poem out.

Damn you, Gregory House.


	3. Observation

Summary of this one: Hmm, this one is teen. One of the minions observes an odd friendship.

* * *

I don't understand them. One of them is the most foul-tempered ass in the western hemisphere, the other is a kind person that only wants to care for others. They're both in the profession which suits them best: medicine. And they're best friends.

I hear them talking, and they're definitely best friends. The ass is always bitching about one thing or the other, and the kind one is always trying to cheer his friend up or on. It is what you always see, one leaning on the other for support when they need it. They are best friends.

But I get the feeling that, for all the times I've heard them talking, all that I've seen between them, I'm still missing something. When they pass in the hall, usually the ass is going somewhere important, or just to lunch, and the kind one turns on his heel to walk together. It doesn't matter to him. And the ass never acknowledges it, or reacts. Other times, in the hall, something's changed, and neither even glance at each other, they just keep walking.

So, to answer this, I may have to spy a little. They didn't look at each other today. Now, I'm following the kind one around, because he's much less paranoid about a chick following him at all. Likely hasn't noticed me yet. But he's going up to the roof. And it's past dark.

And the ass is up there, as the heavy iron door swings closed, and there's no way to get out there with them without being seen. A heeled shoe is wedged in the doorjamb before it closes.

The kind one. "This is getting a bit repetitive. Can't we just meet somewhere else?"

The ass. "I like it up here. It's cozy. 'S got that whole festive freeze-your-gonads-off vibe."

Laughter, from the kind one first, and grudgingly from the ass. Then, I don't know what happens, but there is cloth on the bricks next to the door and _moaning_. The moaning gets louder. And longer. And there are two voices, and wet sounds, and I am hurrying down the stairs desperately as the echoing of the door slamming properly surrounds me. The door opens again, as I rush into the hall two floors below, face purple.

Oh, okay. That answers that question.

Turns out that they aren't 'definitely best friends' after all.


	4. Pain

Summary: Rated K. Nothing happens. It is merely a subjective examination of pain. (The subject naturally being House). Maybe HouseWilson if you turn on you ear or just friendship.

* * *

Pain can mean many different things. Burning, stabbing, stinging, itching, heavy, pounding, throbbing, freezing, cutting, prickling... There's so many.

There's the pain of dead muscle tissue in his thigh... and the pain of walking without the muscle anymore.

And, sometimes, there's something to counteract the pain. Like Vicodin, or morphine. And the user develops a dependence on the thing that gives them release from pain. The pain doesn't go away, because everything is a reminder; the cane, the limp, the stares he receives.

He can't ever forget that the pain will come back _so much worse_ the next time he goes longer than four hours without a pill. Three hours. Two. He's pushing the maximum dosage, he's going to overdose if he's not careful - but he never does, because, as much as he hates the pain, he hates the thought of proving everyone right and actually killing himself.

As much as he's dependent on the painkillers themselves, he's even more tied to his supplier. He can't write his own subscriptions, because then he might prescribe himself too much and sell it, or do something equally naughty. It's not exactly clear how having his best friend write them for him, incredibly overstating the dosage is better, but it had worked for years, despite said friend's protests.

So, he was tied to his best friend for life. At least the man was a good cook.

Pain is so many things that, logically, _something_ good would eventually crop up.


	5. Snuggle

Warning for this one. Rated T. Post-slash-filled-sex kind of T. And Wilson is a bit of a chick in this. House is so adorable sometimes.

Summary: Wilson pondering House's sleeping habits.

* * *

I was going to be a little bitchy at work in the morning. I couldn't get to sleep.

I had slept with Dr. Gregory House, the terror of all Jersey. Well, obviously not technically, but there had been a large amount of sex in the last hour or so.

Here's something you should know; Greg House does not fall asleep, particularly around other people. Even when in a hospital bed, he would wait until the nurses changed shift before drifting. I had never seen him in that drowsy, staring-at-nothing haze, when his brain was obviously just switched off.

He had been looking at me, and then about to say something. Then, his eyes glazed over, and he _snuggled_ his unshaven face between my neck and shoulder and just dropped off. His arm was flung over me, and our legs were a bit tangled, so it wasn't as though I was going anywhere.

I just couldn't fathom the raw cuteness of that little gesture. House was a snuggler. He snuggled. He had an unnatural affinity for snuggling.

With me, James Wilson.

I worked hard to supress the fangirl-ish squeal until I was in my car, driving to my apartment to change before work.


	6. Proof

_Let friendship equal **F**. Let sexual relations equal_ _**S**._

_Let Gregory House equal **H**. Let James Wilson equal **W**. Let Jessica Rousille, an intern, equal **J**._

_Given: **F** equals the sum of **H** and **W**. **S** equals the sum of **W** and **J**._

_Prove that **F **is greater than or equal to **S**._

_**W** equals **F** minus **H**. **W** equals **S** minus **J**. Therefore, **F **minus **H** equals **S** minus **J**._

That's as far as one could get without numbers.

House glared silently at the board. He had never been good at theoretical mathematics. And, try as he might, the jumble of letters was no good without an assigned value for H and J in relation to W. He would have to ask Wilson who was more important.

Or... He picked up his marker again. He rewrote the equation.

_Let infinity equal **L**._

_If **W** plus **H** equals **L**, then **L** minus **H** equals **S** minus **J**._

_Infinty minus (any number, here **H**) equals infinity. **S** minus **J** is less than or equal to infinity._

_Therefore, **L** minus **H** is greater than or equal to **S** minus **J**._

_Therefore, if **F** equals **L**, then **F** is greater than or equal to **S**._

House grinned. He would have to make F equal L for the proof to be accurate. He wrote one more line on the board, before taking his cane and going to find Wilson.

_Let **L** equal love..._

_

* * *

_

Now, some (all) of you may be wondering what in all the hells the above means/proves. You want to hear something funny? _I don't have the faintest idea._

My theory is: Jessica is an intern that Wilson is having **_S_** with. House wrote the proof to make himself believe that his friendship with Wilson was 'greater than or equal to' the thing with the intern. There were too many variables (all of them), and it could not be solved. So he put in infinity (love) and, since nothing can be greater than infinity, the **_S_** cannot be greater than love. For this to mean anything, he and Wilson would have to be in love, instead of friends.

Basically, he has to get Wilson to fall in love with him in order to be sure that he is more important to said oncologist than the intern.

Okay? Does that make sense?

Where in the world did I get this idea? I've been on the computer too much.

* * *

Oh, also, if the proof makes sense to anyone, and that person sees an error, please tell me. 


	7. Solemn

Because it has been asked more than once, allow me to be clear: I am writing these as a collection, but you are welcome to find any connection you want. Just know that I am not doing it on purpose.

I like this one. I was bored and writing stream-of-conciousness sort of and this idea took shape. Yay! Please tell me who is speaking in your review, so I know if I was clear or not.

* * *

He is the one that laughs. I don't laugh; I sort of chuckle, when it's expected of me, but I don't laugh. It's a kind of solemnity. I'm not happy, but I'm not unhappy. I don't feel depressed when I tell a person that they're going to die in a week, or a month, or a year. It's my job to tell them, and theirs to feel depressed.

So, like an ugly moth to light, I gravitate toward this person that laughs when nothing is funny and is cruel for no reason at all. It's a sort of freedom, and it rubs off on me.

And I have a theory:

There is a hole somewhere in the universe, or maybe just in our hearts. If we get too close to it, our light, our happiness and our sadness and everything in between, gets sucked into the hole and what we are left with is solemn.

So what brought me to the point of staring at him whenever I can? I let myself become too much of a drone, I got too close to the hole in myself and it took my soul away?

Whatever happened, I need to hold onto him. He is a lifeline, this unbreakable red thread connecting us and pulling me back from the brink of oblivion to _here_, this office with glass walls and whiteboards and the saturation of coffee.

Because, if I get close enough, he smiles and I smile _for real_ back and I've never felt so alive.


	8. Company

His eyes hurt. It was obscenely late at night, and he was on call for the Clinic emergency room. It was uncommon for the Head of Oncology to be reduced to something so menial, but every few months it was only fair to be thrown into the rotation. While he was sitting around doing nothing, he had decided to toil through some of his paperwork. It had a way of biting one in the ass if you ignored it.

This brought to mind his best friend, whose fear of a paper trail rivaled an embezzler's. It made him smile, just a little, even through the yellowish light of his desk lamp. He wrote another line on a report on a case of advanced melanoma in a very sweet fifty-year-old woman. Alone at 3 a.m., she seemed very far away. He was nearly dozing when there was a quick knock on his door and House pushed it open without an invitation.

He was still hazy as House sat down comfortably in the padded chair. "Nice piece of furniture you've got," House commented brightly. "What, you want them to have awesome posture when you tell them about the terminal leukemia?"

"What are you doing here? I thought that neither heaven nor hell could keep you past your assigned hours."

House seemed wounded. "Are you suggesting that I don't take pride in my work? I'm certain that I'm helping to better the world." After a little answering chuckle, House explained, "I heard you had the graveyard shift and I decided to keep you from straying from the straight and narrow path. You're a regular narcoleptic after midnight. How _did_ you live through med school?"

He rubbed his temples with a groan. "Caffeine and the promise of giving a supermodel a physical."

"I remember that being in the syllabus somewhere," House nodded sagely. "Lying bastards, the lot of them." There was silence for a bit, as he ticked off boxes on an allergy card. "Whatcha doing?" House asked.

"Work. I know, an alien concept for you."

"You're not very nice, you know? What would that chick from accounting think?" House chided, twirling his cane between his fingers.

"You're not so nice yourself."

"I find that offensive. You're the host, here. Be more host-y."

"I don't have to-" He paused as his beeper went off. It was the front office paging him for an emergency operation.

As he hesitated, House settled his chin on his cane and suggested, "I think you should get scrubbed up."

"I know. I was just trying to enjoy this for a bit more." He took a deep breath, laughed at himself, and Wilson walked out of his empty office.

It wasn't as though House would ever come to keep him company...because House didn't care about anyone but himself.

* * *

I wrote this because it was really late and I was tired and now it's one thirty and I'm still tired but I've accomplished something with my staying up. 

This turned out more sad than I intended. And you know that you expected something to be off, just from the writing... Review, please!


	9. Best Sick Day Ever

Adi, there's a pretty fun Whedon reference, and it's basically out of character, but whatever. I liked it.

* * *

I feel like hell. Screw work. My hand slides out from under the blankets, touches the wireless receiver (right next to the ever-so-useful alarm clock) and only a death grip convinces it to follow my sweaty palms anywhere. I shuffle through my groggy memories and dial Cuddy's office.

"Dean of Medicine's office," a perky voice answers.

I groan humbly. "Hello, Lillia," I say. "Put me through to Cuddy."

The medical intern's voice is more hesitant, now. "Dr. House? Dr. Cuddy is a little bit annoyed that you aren't here." Behind her, I hear, '_If that's House so help me God I'm going to find a way to break his tenure!_'

"I thought that your desk is **outside** her office walls," I say conversationally.

"It is, Dr. House," she squeaks. '_ You're my secretary, aren't you? Give me that phone!_'

"Ah, it's one of _those _days. Put her on."

"Yes, Dr. House."

'_Who do you work for, him_ or me?" Cuddy's voice comes into focus and Lillia is gone. "House, it's eleven in the morning, and you're late for Clinic again. And you have a case, for the first time in two weeks! A movie star, this time. Specifically requested you."

I sigh. "I'm sick."

"You work in a hospital. We'll treat you, I promise. Get your ass over here."

"What are the symptoms," I prompt.

"High fever and he started hemorrhaging about half an hour ago," she supplies. I know that she's putting a hand over her eyes. I'm psychic like that.

"Been out of the country lately?"

She's surprised. "India two weeks ago for a shoot. How did you know?"

I press firmly on my temples, causing myself slightly more pain. "Dengue fever, or something. Too easy. If it's not that, have the plebes do it. I'm sick, I'm not coming in for work."

"It's nothing we can't cure."

"I can't move, too achy. Might be bone marrow cancer, who knows? Send... say... an ocologist over?" I project my uber-sexy smirk of doom through my voice. It's enough to remind her that she's pissed.

"So we can send a gorram ambulance!"

"...And, since I'm so very important, you could send one of them **important** oncologists"

"You have no reason to stay home!"

"...Shall we say, the Head of Oncology...?" I hum to myself, ignoring her.

"I'm not going to let you turn a sick day into boy's night out!"

I grumble petulantly, "I just want ickle Jamesy to worry about me."

"Why?"

I drop my voice until it sounds too sincere and confess, "Because I am truly, madly in love with him."

"The hell you are."

"Ask him. If he gets all defensive, send him on over. If he has no idea what you're talking about, fine, I haven't corrupted him...yet. And if he says that we've been seeing each other for two months, one week, three days, one hour, and," I peek at my clock for the first time today, "thirteen minutes, then, garsh, plan the wedding."

She becomes excessively sarcastic. "Hold on a minute, I see him at the front desk. I'll go ask him."

Silence for a bit, followed by insane laughter far away (not sure if it's through the phone or audible all the way to under my covers). Finally, the phone is picked up again and Wilson says, "Um, House, what did you say to Cuddy? She's in hysterics and yelling 'slaps on maid-of-honor' over and over again."

I grin the infamous Jimmy grin. "I'm sick, for chrissake. Come...**examine** me."

He just sighs and says, "I guess I'll be over in half an hour."

* * *

Haha! An actual plot, ridiculous though it was! Yes! Please review... 


	10. Hangover

Best. Thing. Ever. ((Adi, did you read chapter nine at all?))

So, the summary is: House gets weird when he has a hangover.

* * *

Cameron held a hand over her eyes. The florescent lights were drilling a hole in her brain. Chase's head was flat on the desk, and he groaned every few minutes. Foreman had his coffee in a death grip.

"Why the hell would they expect us at work after an office party?" Cameron pouted.

"Because they expect us doctors to use meds or something to stop the hangovers," Chase mumbled.

Foreman snorted. "I actually took some, and I still feel like crawling back in bed."

Wilson moved in front of the glass walls out in the hallway and peered into the office. He opened the door and stuck his head in first, checking all the little corners for crippled people trying to ambush him.

"What are you looking for?" Cameron asked.

Wilson moved all the way inside and sat in a chair facing away from the hallway. In a quiet hiss, he said, "I'm hiding from House."

There was a long pause. Three sets of eyes followed the slow, painful trudge of a man brought low by alcohol as he came closer to the door. Chase rubbed his eyes and said, "Why?"

"Because when he gets a hangover, he gets...weird."

The door opened. Wilson dropped his face into his hands without looking around.

House's just-found-a-whole-family-of-dead-fuzzy-things-under-my-tongue look brightened immediately. "Hey, it's Jimmy! Say hi to Jimmy, gang!"

They all obediently waved their hands, including House. "Hi, Jimmy."

"Don't encourage this."

"What do we say when Jimmy's down?" House prompted. They stared blankly at him. After the pause, House finished, "We say, Cheer up, Jimmy!"

"Cheer up, Jimmy."

"You guys are very unhelpful."

Chase whispered, "What'll happen to us if we don't do it? He looks insane."

House raised his hands and continued, "What do we say when Jimmy's mad?"

Cameron tried, at least. "Be happy, Jimmy."

Wilson, knowing what was coming, just shook his head.

"Be happy, Jimmy!" House cheered. "What do we say when Jimmy's happy?" No one knew.

House took one limping step and sat in Wilson's lap. He grabbed both sides of his friend's head and kissed him, with much too many sound effects.

"I love you, Jimmy!" House cheered.

Jimmy hid his face in his hands. "There's a reason why I don't get drunk on the same nights he does."

Foreman, too conked out on Chaser tablets and caffeine to care much, took a sip of his beloved coffee and nodded to himself. "Yup, that's pretty weird."

* * *

I'd like to add that I've never had a hangover, so correct me on anything you feel like. So funny! 


	11. Decision

There are many different ways to begin a conversation. "I've decided to fall in love with you" is, technically, a work of grammatical brilliance, and therefore a viable option.

Of course, Wilson doesn't know a work of grammatical brilliance with which to rebut this conversation-beginner, so he settles for "Whuh?"

House grins. "Yup. I'm really bad at chicks, and you're really good at them but in a way that pisses me off, so I've decided that they can all go screw Chase if they want and I'm going to fall in love with you."

Wilson is silent for a long time. House just sits in his chair, twirling his cane between his fingers and smiling like Buddha. Finally, Wilson manages, "You can't just make yourself love someone."

"Then why did His Almightiness make me awesome at everything else?" House asks immediately.

Wilson runs his hands through his hair. "It isn't real love if you force it…"

"Define real love, then. I'll meet your criteria on this."

Very, very quietly: "It's not real if you _have_ to force it, you idiot." Out loud, Wilson says, "I'm leaving."

When he is far down the hall, House leans out of his door and yells for all the world to hear, "Hey, I'm making an effort here! Get your ass in gear and love me back already!"

Wilson just keeps going.

House pouts. Obviously, he's going to need a new plan of attack.


	12. Misuse and Abuse

Oh my God. This is rated T at the very least. Closer to M. Actually, don't read it.

* * *

This is easy. Don't overanalyze it. I need sex, he offers, we _have_ sex, and that's that. Don't talk about it. It's not love, not on my part, at least, and he knows that. I'm in love with…someone else.

If he wants love, he should just go pick up one of his girls. He practically keeps them on call.

It's so easy. There is no way it can go wrong.

…Or so I thought, right up until the moment I said Wilson's name while having sex with Chase.

So now he knows. He doesn't seem to care. It's fine. It's _fine_. He won't tell anyone, because then he'll have to tell them that we had sex and he'll be fired. I have nothing _nothing?_ nothing to worry about.

For God's sake, I'm in love with Wilson and I'm using Chase and he _doesn't care_. That's not love, not even on _his_ part. That's prostitution.

It's disgusting that I'm using him, and it's disgusting that Chase is _letting me_. And it's disgusting that it's because I lust after my best friend.

Still, every time Wilson leaves my office, Chase walks in and closes the blinds and I don't feel like killing something with the frustration.

The frustration is building again, now. Because things can't stay this way.

Until everything is destroyed, though, I'll be weak and use him to put one more layer of duct tape on my world.

Sometimes, though, I have to wonder…

Who is using who?

* * *

...Anyway, I got this idea because one of the reviewers mentioned HouseChase and I decided to use it. Still a lot of HouseWilson overtones, of course. 


	13. Counting

House was sitting perfectly still in his office. The minions were talking about some case or other – it didn't matter because he already knew that it was giardiasis from the rather imaginative stool samples – and he was bored out of his mind.

He began to count doubles in his head. It was something to do.

One; two; four; eight; sixteen; sixty-four; 128; 256; 612; 1,024; 2,048; 4,096; 8,192; 16,384; 32,768; 65,536; and then he lost track.

Damn. Well, that had killed a minute or two.

He pressed his cane to his forehead and laughed quietly to himself. He knew something that he could count, because he remembered every single one.

He had finished at 340,897 before Wilson stopped and asked if they were going to have lunch together. House said yes, Wilson smiled, and House told his minions to call the Center for Disease Control about the giardiasis.

340,898, he ticked off.

In the hall, House said something that didn't matter and Wilson said something back and they both laughed. 340,899.

When House had Wilson pay (again), Wilson just smiled. House leaned over and kissed him. 340,900.

Wilson was surprised. "Is that another hundred already?"

"Better. There's only one more hundred until we get to another _thousand_," House said happily.

Wilson just blushed.

The woman at the register gave them lunch free.

* * *

I did all the doubles in _my_ head. I'm proud of me.


	14. Alone Alone Alone

The thing, It, is from tonight's episode of House, "Son of Coma Guy".

* * *

There is something that terrorizes the man who terrorizes so many others. It is something someone unimportant once said to him. 

"And one day our friendship _will_ break, and that'll just prove your theory that relationships are conditional and you don't need human connection, or deserve it, or whatever goes on in the rat maze of your brain."

It made him stop thinking or breathing or acting or sniping or _being_. He wasn't addicted to pills, he didn't care how loud or quiet or unnoticed he became. He was just a crippled old man staying in one place for the rest of his life, scaring anything and anyone away.

Someday, Wilson would not be his friend. It hadn't even occurred to him, not really.

And then the moment passed, Wilson looked away, and he almost cried. Everything that he was came crashing back and, after his epiphany, he saw what his life had become.

Days or weeks or years or lifetimes from now, he would not have Wilson. He would not have anyone. He would be nothing, no one, alone, alone, desperately completely horribly alone.

But that moment, too, passed. Life rolled inexorably forward. He clung to Wilson like a child, talking to him constantly, coming into his office without anything to beg for. He tried and he tried to find a part of himself that would keep Wilson there for another month, a week, a day.

He failed. Wilson hated him. Everything had gone to Hell in a hand basket and he had known that it would since Wilson had said It. Had known it longer than that, really.

Now Wilson had found a wife that worked and gone off somewhere House-less to tell people that they were going to die. And House was alone alone alone.

If he knew anything now - which he obviously didn't - it was that the only good, honest thing he had ever done was to befriend James Wilson.

But he was a broken person. He could only offer a broken sort of friendship (or love, maybe, when he was detoxed enough to think) and Wilson hadn't needed that. Hadn't needed to put up with it.

And he was going to die alone alone alone and Wilson probably wouldn't even hear about it until months later at some conference.

He had known, every second of every day all his life, that he was going to die alone. But without Wilson?

It was too much, too cruel.

House died.

Alone, alone, alone.

* * *

Hearing what Wilson said... I'm in tune with House. I've written quite a bit of him in first person and I know him a little bit (I like to fantasize), and hearing It made me cry. So now I tried to make you cry, too. _So there_. 

Things get weird when I stream-of-conscious House, too...


	15. Plate

Well, I'm hurt. More than a hundred hits last chapter before I even considered posting this, and not a single review. A curse on your house. (Except that won't work, because House is Wilson's...)

* * *

Wilson stood in his kitchen. He was looking at a blue plate, which he had just found in his boxes of Crap the Lawyer Let Him Keep. It wasn't all that special. A lighter line of blue started at the bowed edge and spiraled its way into the center in a pretty little design.

He really should put it away. Stack it in the shelf, even though it didn't match the set he had bought new. He should put it there and then have company over and let them comment on the fact that it was irregular.

The fact was, he had gotten it in Rome the summer between his med school and internship. He and this pretty number named Bella had been going out a while and she brought him back to her mother country to meet her grandmother. Very sweet woman, that one. He had continued sending her letters back and forth long after Bella had traipsed off somewhere else.

So he should use it as a conversation piece, or something. Give him a chance to reminisce about the Good Old Days, before prescribing pills to a crotchety gimp every other day.

And, since House was obviously going to be the only one he ever had over for dinner, it would be a good way to remind the idiot that Wilson had, in fact, had a life before House. It had the ring of fairness to it, since House's old buddies kept popping up left and right lately.

Wilson hummed under his breath as he nodded. Yes. He definitely should.

The abandoned look that House would wear crossed his mind. His hand opened. The plate shattered.

He sighed and fetched his new broom, cursing House for being able to mess with his brain from miles away.

* * *

_Please_ review this time? 


	16. What Works, Works

Wilson walked into House's office. House was sitting in his chair, looking through the transparent walls at his whiteboard. It had symptoms up and down and back and front of it. House occasionally bounced his large tennis ball against the wall he faced, thinking.

Wilson said, "I know that you're not listening, but I have to say this. I love you, I have always loved, and I am willing to give up everything for you. I know that _you_ love _me_ in your backwards way, but you have no concept of sacrificing for love or even equivalent exchange."

House looked at Wilson, silently.

"You're a petulant bastard. You're mean because you can be and, the very instant that someone is mean back at you, you declare yourself the victim and set yourself up as a martyr at your own altar."

House sighed and dropped the ball to the floor. "Well?"

Wilson dropped his face into his hands. "I'm going to go back to my office and wait for you to magically grow a conscience, I guess."

House grabbed his cane and limped toward him. "You don't really want me to change. You said yourself that you love me."

Wilson groaned. "I want you to change. You just don't want to change, so you're not going to and I just hope that tomorrow is a new day."

House clapped him on the shoulder. "Glad you've got that straightened out."

Wilson rubbed his eyes. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

"See you later, honey!" House chirped happily.

* * *

Cameron, Foreman, and Chase stood in the conference room, waiting to start the differential diagnosis for the case.

Chase said, "And Wilson's just said 'You just don't want to change, so you're not going to and I just hope that tomorrow is a new day.'"

"You can read lips?" Cameron asked absentmindedly.

"Nah. He just comes in and makes the same speech every hour or so."

Foreman shook his head. "Whatever makes the relationship work goes, I guess. It's already a miracle."

House didn't come in for five minutes more. When he was done thinking whatever he was thinking, he walked through the doors.

Instead of beginning, Chase asked, "You know, maybe this time you really should change. The speeches are getting more frequent."

House grinned, but it looked painful. "Hey, whatever works, works. Never question His plan."

Foreman shrugged. "It'll work right up until it breaks, you idiot."

"Then we'll find a new plan. Let's get a move on already, there's someone dying. Have you people no souls?"

* * *

It would work, for now. After that...is for the future. But whatever they did, it would work, too. Something always did. 


	17. Why

He's nearly killed too many people to count with his guesses and luck.

He insults everyone.

He ignores me, he belittles me, he uses me, he doesn't care about me.

He is an ass. There is no other way to describe it.

I hate him almost more often than I don't.

But.

I have heard House on the phone at three in the morning, screaming in pain, because he tried and tried and tried to stop the pills and it didn't work.

They ask me why I stand by him.

* * *

In memory of my love for Wilson. It dies with the episode "Finding Judas".

Wilson. Oh god, Wilson.


	18. Panic

This is Fading Grace, saying...even if Wilson's gone off the Judas end, and all...they're just too hard to resist. Anyway, this is a tiny panic moment. And...don't go reading anything sexy into this...because I don't even know if they're together or not...

* * *

The phone echoed through the office for the third time. James Wilson ignored it, again. He had had an eight-hour operation that had failed and now he just wanted to finish… 

His secretary apparently just turned his voice mail on. It picked up on the line.

"It's me."

House. He _really_ couldn't deal with House.

"I can't get up."

Before he realized it, he had hopped the dividing wall on their balconies and through the door.

House dropped the phone from his hand and gave him that damn self-deprecating smile. "How's it going?"

Wilson was breathing hard. "How long have you…"

"Been stuck here? A while. I've got the peons on a dire mission, like a biopsy, probably. They know something's up, but I wasn't very specific."

Wilson sighed as he knelt in front of House, beginning to push soothing pressure onto his thigh. He winced as he felt the concave skin, and tough texture. "You know, they have nurses in the physical therapy ward who are actually specially trained to massage the feeling back into your leg."

"That's not the problem. I have _too much_ feeling. Stings all over, straight to the bone. But _ooh God_," he groaned, relaxing, "that feels good."

Wilson twitched, just a little bit, at the groan. But he didn't stop. "Is it getting better?"

"Dude, lots of things are getting better."

"Focus, House!"

"Yeah, yeah, it's working, shut up."

Wilson continued for a bit. "Did you take your medication, or is that a stupid question?"

"Stupid question. Hasn't kicked in yet."

"About those nurses…" Wilson's arms were getting tired. "They are probably much better at this than I am."

"No one's better. End of discussion."

Wilson sighed. End of discussion, indeed.


	19. The Hunt

I've been watching Star Trek: Voyager lately (marathon on Spike) and I recently saw The Killing Game. So I wrote this, but this is funnier. And House wins all.

* * *

Wilson walked into the Clinic and up to the nurse in charge of timesheets. "Hi, yeah, sorry, but is Dr. House doing his Clinic duty right now?" 

She put on her glasses, flipped through her clipboard, and shook her head. "Can't help you, Doctor. It says here that House owes fifty-two hours already. If you see him, send him in, you hear me?"

Wilson sighed and turned to go, and then stopped when he saw the end of a wooden cane disappear behind a line of patients.

He rolled his eyes and walked down that hall. A low shape moved around the other side of the line, lurking where Wilson couldn't see if he wasn't looking.

Wilson turned a corner, waited a few seconds, and then looked back. Scruffy hair ducked behind a chair.

Right. Wilson went into the stairwell, intent on losing the shadow.

When he came out, House was leaning against the wall. "I do _know_ how to use the elevator."

Wilson rubbed his hand through his hair. "Why are you stalking me, House?"

House grinned. "Why were you looking for me in the Clinic?"

Wilson blushed and whispered, "W-well, about six months ago I was under the _impression_ that we slept together and then started going out and that you promised to take me to dinner tonight."

House shrugged and turned to go back to the elevator. Wilson hurried to walk with him. House said, "Well, if that's the case, I guess there's no choice, right?"

As they stood side by side in the elevator, looking at the doors, House said, "And, for the record, I didn't forget. I just missed the hunt."

"That was hardly a hunt, House!" Wilson yelped.

House leaned close to Wilson's ear. "I haven't made the kill, maybe. Just wait until tonight." His tongue flicked out and along his lover's ear.

The elevator doors opened and Wilson bolted out, face scarlet and hand over his ear.


	20. Description

Hah. I have no idea where this came from, but it's cute. House is awesome.

* * *

House walked into his office and sighed when he saw the thick manila folder on his desk. It was on top of his CDs, after all, and those medical history things were heavy. If some orderly had snapped Led Zeppelin in half, so help him, House was going to whine _a lot_.

He leaned his cane against the wood and sat down, flipping the folder open. Some guy in his forties. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown. Interestingness: None.

To make it interesting, this guy would have to spice up his resume. First, catch something other than – House glanced at the symptoms – typhoid, and, second, add some fun facts. Medical histories were always crap for literature.

He scribbled _typhoid fever_ across the top of the first page with his trusty troll-adorned pencil. He stuck it between his teeth and considered the page. Spice it up, huh?

Like maybe… House took his pencil in hand and began to jot down whatever came to mind.

Hair: Brown _shading to a kind of lighter blondish thing or something. Takes really good care of it. May be called 'pretty'. _

Right. Good enough. And…

Eyes: Brown _like chocolate. Also, like, when he's laughing they get all sparkly and stuff. And when he's mad they're piercing. And they're too large, they make him look too cute._

House sat back, satisfied. Now _there_ was a thing that made him want to meet the guy personally!

* * *

Cameron, Chase and Foreman were all leaning their heads together to look at the nearly-healthy-again patient's medical history.

Chase leaned back. "Okay, seriously, is House in love with Wilson or what?"

Cameron looked into the empty and dark office adjacent to their room. She hazarded, "It might be a joke he's playing on us...?"

Foreman shook his head and pulled on his jacket, ready to settle this and leave. "Nope, House definitely has a man crush. Maybe you should look through Wilson's patient's histories. He could've started to daydream when reading through the history of a guy with a limp."

Chase laughed. "I can see it now: '_Has a horrible personality, but he's really hot 'n' sexy_.'"

Foreman added, "Or maybe that would be yours, Chase. Should we take a look?"

Cameron covered her mouth to stifle the giggles as Chase flushed.

"Shut up, it's a joke!"


	21. Paper

This is so random. I had the plot bunny around the same time as, I think, the seventeenth drabble - not that I remember which one that was, at this point - and put it off as too ridiculous. It was amazingly fun to write.

Anyway. If you get confused, say so in your review. I'll explain it in a reply back. If I get more than five confused reviews, I'll explain in a note at the bottom _and_ reply back. I promise. I'm cool like that.

* * *

I was born in a humble factory. I had the sensation of being big, and then I was soaked in smelly water and I dissolved. I was mixed around a lot, and separated and mixed and separated again, and then a heavy iron thing smashed me flat. It got really, really hot and I was dried out and cut into a rectangle. I was put into a box with a lot of my kind, and then shipped away.

The box was opened a long time later, and a giant pulled out a whole stack of us, including me. The giant put us into an enormous white machine, and the five on top of the stack were immediately pulled away. It happened again and again; a few at a time would be taken mysteriously. I ended up as the very, very top, and it was torture, because everyone knew that I was going to be taken soon, too.

The time came, and rollers shot me through and around and in between what felt like miles of track inside the machine. I was marked with black ink and named 'Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital Application for Employment', and then shot out into light and open air.

A new giant picked me up – there were many theories, but we had all agreed that they were some sort of animal – and marked me with a portable ink-holder. I was set down again, and then another giant with long, curly, black head-fur picked me up and read the markings and handed me to a giant with reddish-brown, long head-fur.

This giant walked around with me for a while, and then set me down on a pile of other things like me in a pretty, bright place that had glass walls and little toys everywhere. Things were starting to look up for me, even if I did have a very stupid name.

Nothing happened, and then the room was dark. When it was light again, a giant – I think a male one, because its/his head-fur was short and brown, and its/his face-circles were very, very blue, like the place outside the window. Was he going to do something else to me? No, the face-circles went over everything in the pretty glass place _except_ me.

He made noises a lot. And I think he was lopsided, because he tilted back and forth when he moved. Other giants came in from time to time – a male one with yellow head-fur, the presumably female one with long, reddish-brown head-fur, a brown one without any head-fur at all – I might have discovered a new species of giant! – and, for a very long time, a male one with dark-yellowish-brown head-fur and brown face-circles.

Lopsided kept making noises out of his sound-hole, and Brown Face-Circles echoed different sounds back, and they both got quieter and quieter and made weird faces and then Lopsided decided that the sounds weren't enough so he assaulted Brown Face-Circles with his sound-hole. Brown Face-Circles started to fight back, too.

It confused me. Why would they attack each other in such a pretty glass place?

After a while, they stopped, and Lopsided stayed while Brown Face-Circles left. The light in the place became redder, and his blue face-circles turned to me. He picked me up, and I worried that I was going to leave the pretty place. He read the markings, and wrote something else on the top of me. And then he set me back down on the pile. My new name was 'I already told you that I don't need another disciple, my religion is well on its way'.

It became dark and then light again ten times. I started to worry that I would get buried in the pile, because other things had been stacked around me. Lopsided and Brown Face-Circles must have been very angry at each other, all the time, because they always attacked each other.

At last, the female giant with long, curly, black head-fur from before came in and made lots of noises, and Lopsided made them back, and they both made funny faces but they didn't get quieter, so I wasn't afraid that they would attack each other. She picked me up and read my new name, and she must have been angry at Lopsided for giving me a less-stupid name, because she got louder. Eventually, she threw her torso-sticks in the air and held me sideways and started to tear and it hurt so very, very much…

* * *

The two torn pieces of paper fluttered into the wastepaper basket, and Cuddy stormed out of the room.

At least it had died in its most favorite, pretty, glass place.


	22. Sight Unseen

House... has very, very beautful eyes.

I stare at them as often as I can. They are blue the same way that... cancer patients are accepting.

Sometimes they are bright, and sometimes they are dark. Sometimes he turns his head funny, and they sparkle in a way that I have never seen before. Sometimes he turns them down the same way that my patients turn down after the hope of the most recent treatment subsides.

Yes...House has pretty eyes.

And, whenever he talks to someone, they are sharp.

He sees everything, every detail, every emotion, every lie.

And he never looks at me. Not when we're talking, not when we're joking, not when I'm yelling at him for whatever he's messed up on.

I'm pretty sure that he doesn't want to see me.

He knows me inside and out, he knows what I'm going to say next. I don't know what it is about me that he doesn't want to see.

It's his...thing. He _has_ to know everything. He can't be around me constantly for years and _not_ know me.

I've been his only friend for years, and I don't know what to expect from him. No - I know what to expect, what is inevitable. He's going to pop another pill in an hour. He's going to insult me if I say something he doesn't want to hear. But I don't know what he'll say next.

I don't try to.

Why won't he look at me with his eyes that see everything?

I've decided that he tries very, very hard to not know what I am.

How could a man like Greg House, so quick, so sure, so easily bored, stay around someone as boring as me for so long?

Yes. That's definitely it. He wants to be able to be surprised by me.

But it doesn't happen often.

I know why I stay around him. But why would he stay around me for the few rare surprises left in me?

I obviously don't know him.

I wish that he would look at me with his pretty eyes, though. Just being around him isn't really worth it if I can never see them.

And...there might be some worth in being seen by something so pretty.


	23. Mistake

I made a horrible mistake.

And it takes something really bad for me to say that.

I know everyone inside and out, because it's amusing and usually helps me somewhere down the line.

If I didn't know how to piss off those losers who follow me around, how bored would I be? If I didn't know how to con stuff out of Cuddy, I'd just be s.o.l.

Why, _why_ did I have to get to know that damn Wilson?

It doesn't gain me anything.

And he's not corrupt, which _sucks_. I mean, yeah, he's corrupt. He cheats on every woman in the world practically simultaneously. But he's still such a goddamn saint at heart.

It makes it really tough to torment him.

One good point of the saint complex is the quilt about the times when he falls from grace. That fodder lasts for months, even when I'm cheering over his divorce.

And he's very trusting. I can say anything, and a part of him will believe me. Or really, really want to.

It's almost cute.

But none of it gains me anything! This whole friendship ordeal is useless!

I don't know where I stand with him. He's not my underling, and he's not my boss, and he doesn't go away if I snarl. I don't know how to deal with him…

And he's always watching me with those damn innocent eyes! Like he's trying to catch me doing something bad. Worse than popping pills.

What does he expect from me?

I don't know how to deal with him, so I treat him almost as bad as the posse. He always needs to be insulted and taken aback, or else he asks annoying questions and philosophizes at me.

So I just need to keep fiddling with him.

Not _that_ kind of fiddling… _That_ will definitely never happen in real life. If something drastic happened, though…

I shouldn't have let Wilson become my best friend.

I made a horrible mistake: I allowed Wilson to become my equal.


	24. Magic

I'm sorry for this. It started off as a vague notion and... ended just the same. No matter what I do, the words won't go in the a right order...

* * *

Wilson doesn't believe in magic.

He's forty-one, for Christ's sake – he moved past magic in the second grade.

Which isn't to say that he doesn't _want_ to believe in it, of course.

Maybe that's part of why he hangs around House, even.

If the imagination is stretched a very little bit, of course.

Wilson tells himself that he's nobler than having a best friend for a shaky sort of fanciful reason like _magic_. He likes House because House is… House. Funny, sometimes. Handsome, if you get the right girl to look. Needy, yes, House is needy, but he doesn't need Wilson for anything besides meds. House isn't needy for Wilson like the new Ex Mrs. Wilson 3.0.

It's not like Wilson will ever think of marrying House for all the wrong reasons. Obviously, though, Wilson doesn't know the _right_ ones, or else he would have gotten this 'needy' fetish out of his system by the time his second wife didn't need him anymore.

Maybe magic _was_ a right reason. Hypothetically, of course. Wilson is pretty sure that 'lack of magic' isn't grounds for divorce anymore.

House is magical. _That_ is certain. Wilson has no qualms about saying that much.

Well, thinking it, actually. Quietly.

If House isn't magical, he's psychic. Obviously. Definitely. He can diagnose a skin rash from a mile off. Even if he's guessing, he's right too often to ignore.

And the way he moves his hands is magical.

No – what he does with his hands.

That doesn't sound right, does it? Wilson thinks that one quietly, too.

Just the way he moves. Twirling his cane, playing piano, even the way he held a pill and put it in his mouth…

He has a magician's hands. House would be good as sleight of hand, and probably really is already and is so good that no one's noticed yet.

House is magic.

That isn't the only reason why Wilson is his friend, though, right? He has other reasons. Definitely.

Of course he does.

But if Wilson closes his eyes, he can just see what House might be able to do with his hands.

Maybe not magic, then. Magic is silly. Maybe Wilson doesn't want to believe in magic.

Maybe Wilson wants to believe in possibilities.

Close enough.

Possibilities are silly, too. Of course.

But, maybe…


	25. Bunny Ears

This is just cute and is in serious need of any sort of plot. Maybe that's why they call it a drabble and not a story...?

Inspired by http:// www. deviantart. com/ deviation/ 45190844/

* * *

House tapped the cheapo disposable camera on the palm of his hand. "Yeah, see, here's the hard part. If I don't find someone to take a picture, no one will believe that we're both here together."

Wilson was half-sitting, half-leaning against the stone railing. "I don't care. We just need a picture of the Hippodrome. It's the last major sightseeing place in Rome that people back home will demand a picture of."

House whined, "But we need a picture of both of us…!"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Don't you _dare_ pull that pouty face with me."

House pulled the pouty face.

Wilson tried his patented approach to House. "The faster this goes, the longer we can spend in the room…"

House weigh his options, and then said, "It's hot enough out here as it is, love of mine, don't try to boil anything else. We need at least one picture with both of us, it's only proper."

Damn. Wilson's patented approach had failed. "Just find someone quickly, then!"

House said, "I dunno. I can't speak the lingo." Contrary to his own words, he hobbled deviously away and found a rather attractive young woman. He said, "Che cosa è l'età legale per amore intorno qui?"

She blinked and answered blandly, "Non ci ne sono."

House followed this up, rapid fire, with, "Qualunque appena detti, siete voi eccedenza quello?"

The girl threw her drink on him and yelled something that sounded insulting.

House hobbled back. "That went well."

Wilson asked, "What did you say to her?"

"Something similar to, 'What is the legal age for love around here?' and then, 'Whatever you just said, are you over that?'"

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "I don't know why you're making an ordeal out of this…"

"I told you I don't speak Italian." He ruffled up Wilson's hair, grinning. "Besides, this is a honeymoon of sorts. This is like the test drive to see if you want to hang out with me anymore."

Wilson took the camera from House's hand and started waving it. "This isn't 'like' a honeymoon, House. And if anything was going to drive me off, you would've done it already as part of your little defense complex."

A kid that looked like he was roaming the world out of a backpack while waiting for college to kick in took the camera. "You need some help?"

Wilson said, "You see? I didn't get a drink all over me."

House countered with, "Yes, but _I_ am no longer hot."

Wilson looked at the camera and posed, and then said offhandedly, "Debatable."

House grinned. "Hey, c'mere." He put an arm around Wilson's shoulders and they both smiled the awkward, other-people-will-be-looking-at-this smile of people now officially labeled 'in love' forever.

The kid took the picture and handed the camera back and said, "American pride," or something equally random before drifting off enthusiastically to have a fairytale meeting with a gorgeous woman with few inhibitions.

House watched him go. "You think he knows I'm British?"

Wilson just sighed. "House."

Innocently, House simpered, "Yes, Jimmy?"

"About that picture."

"What's wrong, sweetie pie?"

Wilson tried to glare it out of him. He failed. "You did bunny ears on me, didn't you."

"It's a show of affection, sugar muffin."

Wilson sighed. "We're going back."

House cheered, "Hooray for sex!"

A finger was waved under his nose. "No. No sex for you until you stop calling me all those weird nicknames."

"Fine then. Wilson it is."

"That's not…technically… my last name anymore…"

"Jimmy."

"Is that really going to stick?"

House shrugged and winked suggestively. "If I scream it loud enough, I'm sure I'll remember it. Things get lodged in there pretty good sometimes."

"Yeah, things like pills. How are you on those, anyway?"

House laughed. "I have well over half a bottle left."

"It's been six days. A bottle is supposed to last sixty."

House pulled the pouty face again.

Wilson just ignored him and seemed to drop the subject by mistake.

They passed a decorative plate stand, and House slowed down. "Hey, Jimmy-sugar-muffin. You want one of these?"

Wilson stopped to look. "Why would I?"

House fiddled with his cane. "A souvenir, maybe. Solid proof. Or something."

"You're cute when you're shy. I'll take this one."

As they kept on toward the hotel, Wilson looked at the brown and blue swirls. "There. Proof enough for you?"

"I dunno. Things like that break pretty easily."

Wilson laughed. "Sometimes a plate is just a plate, Dr. Freud."

* * *

I just had a few ideas for a honeymooning HouseWilson. Niftastic, right?


	26. Hypocrite

Wilson is a very good person.

That's part of why I'm in l-… am attr-… why I am _friends_ with him.

It's disgusting, of course. The way he looks at me, sometimes – like he is _deigning_ to stay, to try to fix me or make me more sociable or at least get me halfway legal. The little bastard.

Look, ladies. Watch Wilson the Good ride in on his high, noble steed and stick a Lance of Freedom, Beauty, and Truth through House the Malignant's face. And he does it all with obsessively coifed hair. And probably tooth-sparkles.

The hypocrite.

That's the other part of why I'm _friends_ with him.

He claims to be so perfect, and then he can sit in his Chair of Compassion behind his Desk of Worry and tell people that they're dying.

_I_ tell people that they're dying while they're lying on a Bed of Pestilence and I'm leaning on my Cane of I'm-Going-to-Dance-on-Your-Grave.

It's not like he doesn't know them, either. If, crazy little guy who doesn't exist forbid, I actually _do_ speak to a patient, it's just once or twice and then they're a blurry face and a paycheck. With cancer patients, he's treating them for years while they're listening to his 'The next treatment might work's and 'The tumor is shrinking's while they're just withering and turning to dust.

Heartless. Absolutely emotionally detached. Objective, even when he knows that he's leaning toward being subjective somewhere else.

Yes, Wilson. That's right. One cancer patient is a tragedy, one hundred is a statistic. That sounds an awful lot like something Joey Stalin once said.

Perfect.

He's good at hiding it. The others just kind of assume that he has self-control and professionalism – his personality is too Good for him to _really_ not care – and that he's putting on a brave face.

Hell with that. The dark parts of him, the detached parts, run much deeper than other people give him credit for.

I like to think that I encouraged those, but it's not true.

That's just how Wilson is, plain and simple. He was like that before I got to him, and he'll be like that after… well, after anything. He's not changing.

He's twisted.

He's Good, somewhere. Fine. But he's still twisted.

I'm the only one that really sees that.

I'm the only one he shows that to.

Now would be the time to say something encompassing and witty and telling. Like, 'Maybe the balance isn't in that he's Good and I'm Bad, but that we've both got some of everything.' The problem with that would be that I would need some Good, and that's just ridiculous.

So… for a final note on which to end…

Maybe Wilson doesn't even realize that he's showing me everything. Maybe it's unconscious.

Maybe, unconsciously, he trusts me way the hell more than he should.

And it might get him killed one of these days.

Or jumped. Also good.

* * *

Fun times. I'm lonesome because some chick whose name seems to escape me is traipsing around in something called the 'real world' with an illusion of a 'life'. So... to fix it, I watched House. And Wilson said something about seeing his patients for years, as opposed to House having them for a week or so. And I thought, 'Wilson is too caring a person for that kind of thing.' At this point I realized that I should be writing this down, and started a stream-of-conscious for House on the subject. I say again, fun times. And I think that I'm trying to break myself of the habit of summing up an entire drabble in the last sentence or two. That's just annoying, eventually. See how messy it got? Yeah. That's called Progress. 


	27. Cracktasticality

(I have whiplash from the cracktasticality of this one.) Where in God's name did _this _come from? Ack! This is what I get for looking up weird pairings for Wilson. (Shudder).

* * *

I've decided that I'm a jealous person.

I mean, alright, that kid with the Union Jack as a cape mackin' on Skinny McCameron didn't really bother me much. Cameron liking me doesn't automatically call for me to be jealous when she and Chase take up something.

But… Wilson. Honestly. He can't keep his eyes in his head sometimes, when more than one hot piece of babe walks past. Hello, you're my best friend, and we're having a conversation. Heel, boy.

I could deal with the chicks. Really.

It's just that Foreman started talking to him and I was sort of Vicodin-ed out of my mind and I read some things into it that I shouldn't have.

And now it's become an obsession.

Wilson, go hit on Cuddy again, for all I care. Fight Chase to the death for Cameron. I don't care about that.

But, seriously. Foreman? You can do better.

…By doing me.

…I've also decided that three pills in an hour leads me to become paranoid and possibly insane…


	28. Choice

Graarrr... This isn't right, but it won't go any other way. Not as happy as I originally wanted it to be.

* * *

I looked up from my desk and my boyfriend of some months had magicked himself into my office.

After I was sure that it wasn't some sort of illusion – I had never seen Wilson so disheveled before – I asked, "What's up?"

He blurted out, "Me or Stacy Warner?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question. Use your words."

He was breathing hard, eyes sliding over everything on my desk before barely resting on me and moving away. He dropped into a chair. "If… if Stacy Warner walked into this office right now, who would you pick, me or her?"

I thought for a moment. "…With or without clothes on?"

He rubbed a hand through his hair. "…House…"

"Does that whole marriage thing count as important?"

"House."

I nodded to myself. "Why are you asking?"

He held his hands out to me, inviting me to do something. "Just… I don't care if you say you would pick her! I really don't! So just say it and get it over with, okay? Just tell the truth. Or… no, lie. Give me an _answer_ so that I can just go off and blindly believe it and stop worrying about this so much."

Freaked out Wilson was very different from normal Wilson. I was interested, now. "What are you worrying about so much?"

He snorted, as though he thought there was no way I didn't know. "If you could get a woman, you wouldn't be going out with me."

That one took me by surprise. "What?"

"I'm just a substitute! A replacement for Mrs. Love-of-Your-Life Stacy Warner. Or something."

"Wait, so this is about you assuming that at some point I'm going to decide that I like girls again?"

"No, it's about you being in love with Stacy Warner!"

"So it's about you assuming that I love you less than I love her."

"Love? Love? No. It's about you choosing her over me if you could so _just give me an answer and I'll leave._"

This was a minefield without any clear dirt at all. Nowhere to put my foot without losing it. "No."

"Why not?"

"You already said it yourself. If I say that I would pick you, you'll assume that it's a lie and get just as mad."

Every muscle was tensed, and he was pouting and very nearly trembling. He voice was still steady as he said, "So you won't tell me."

"You've been worrying about it for weeks, it looks like. You obviously already have the answer you want. Don't bother me about it."

"But am I right?"

"You think you are."

"I don't want to do this circular philosophic discussion with you, House!"

"Then leave."

He shot straight up in his chair as though he was going to tackle me across my desk. Then, he relaxed. Then, he shot out of the chair and stalked out of the room.

Ugh. Relationships are illogical.

I thought he knew me better than that, too.


	29. Touch

Have you ever noticed this? Now that I read it back over, it seems kinda metaphorical. Well, it wasn't intended to be... but it just is. Things grow like that sometimes.

* * *

You would think that, after all these years, I might have noticed it sooner. 

I know that all the hugging and general displaying of affection is for women and in the vein of _things men don't do_, but you would think…

Well, you would think that I would be able to remember a time when House and I physically touched.

When I lived with him in between Julie and Grace, there was nothing. He sat on one side of the couch, I sat on the other. There wasn't even contact of fingers when he handed me something. He always maneuvered it around so that he was diametrically opposite to me, keeping his distance.

He could walk through a crowd without touching anyone. More than the obvious space people give him – no one wants to be caned in the shin – House _dodges_ other people.

Even strangers. Especially _non_-strangers.

It's fine if he wants to keep things professional and everything, but I'm his best friend.

You would think…

You would think that he has to let someone in at _some_ point.

Wouldn't you?


	30. Faith

This one's a bit deep, I guess. And friendship-y. And... well, it could have turned out sadder, couldn't it?

* * *

Wilson sat on one side of the couch, pretending to drink a beer. House was as far away from him as possible while still propping his feet up on the table. They both stared blankly at House's television and focused on not thinking. 

Eventually, Wilson asked, "House, what do you believe in?"

House waited for the words to penetrate the deep state of meditation he had achieved, and then even longer for a response to form. "I don't."

"No, I know that you don't believe in God and all that. But… what do you have faith in?"

"I pray at the altar of material wealth and happiness."

"I'm being serious."

"How do you know that I'm not?"

"Well…" Wilson took a sip, tilting his head back to swallow before finishing. "Because you answered the question ironically."

"And you're now an expert on vocal tones and body language?"

"I'm a human being, if that's what you mean."

"Hm." House located the remote and turned up the volume, the matter having been settled.

Wilson, still looking at the television, took the remote and turned it back down. "I still want to know."

"Why do I have to believe in anything?" House said, turning his head to look at Wilson.

"Because you have to. No one makes it as a doctor without believing in _something_."

"Well, what do _you_ believe in?"

"_I_ actually have a religion to fall back on."

"I don't see you reading out of the Torah or debating about the Talmud, Mr. Judaism."

"I still have one."

"Doesn't mean you believe in it."

"Does so."

"Does not."

Wilson held up his hand , stopping their conversation from going nowhere. "What I mean is, what do you have _faith_ in?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Why don't you want to answer?"

"Because I'm pretty sure that you're a stalker or something at this point."

"I'm curious, okay? I'm your best and only friend. It's allowed."

"Well, what do _you_ have faith in?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me first."

House shrugged, looking stubbornly forward again. "You want a list of my philosophies? Fine. Everybody lies, that's one that you can't argue with. It's always the butler. There's always dust in the attic, no matter how many times you clean it. Nine out of ten times, the exact opposite of what you want to happen will happen."

"No, I don't mean cynicism. I mean, what keeps you sane?"

"Aww. You think I'm sane? Flattery will get you everywhere."

"House."

House lay his head back on the couch, looking at the ceiling. "I have faith in… the indomitable spirit of humankind."

Wilson stared at him, mouth half-open. "Really?"

"Nope."

"House!"

"I suppose the kind of sappy answer you're looking for is that the people around me keep me sane. The people pushing me to be more sociable are keeping me from taking a hostage. Right?" He sneered when Wilson looked him in the eye. "That way, you can feel like you're helping."

"House, pretend for a moment that I'm not your friend out of charity or for an opportunity to stroke my ego."

"What do you want me to say?" House demanded.

"Whatever's the truth!"

"You want to know the truth? Myself. I only have faith in myself. Everything else may change, but _I'm never going to_, and that's the way it should be. The only thing that's keeping me sane is the faith that a great guy like Greg House isn't ever going to go not be sane. Alright?"

Wilson weighed the chances of another lie, and then laughed quietly. "No wonder you're lonely and miserable."

House slumped his shoulders and prepared for a sulk of epic proportions. Before he really hit his stride, though, Wilson spoke.

"And what I have faith in is the indomitable spirit of humankind."

Grudgingly, House acknowledged that this was probably true.

Wilson watched some woman on the television slap a man that didn't love her. He sighed, "Not really."

House refused to look over at him.

"Whenever a patient dies or comes out of remission, I seek refuge, you could say, in the friendship and bonds that I have. The people I love." He shook his head and took another sip of the beer. "If you can understand something like that."

They sat in silence, a pale imitation of the television-induced stupor.

Eventually, House asked, "Why'd you want to know, anyway?"

Wilson smiled tightly. "Because a patient of mine died today." He shrugged and looked at House. "And I knew that you would never tell me if I wasn't your friend."

* * *

Yeah, I know. Where's the love? Well, this is what happened when I decided to write a conversation about faith. Things got away from me... 


	31. Flagged Down

Warning: Cute and annoying House doing things just to be cute and annoying.

* * *

House stood facing the outside window of his office, arms straight and locked, leaning his hip on his desk for balance. With stiff movements, he moved his left hand and the red flag it held straight up, and then down by ninety degrees. At the same time, his right arms rose with the white flag to about fifty degrees from his body.

So the movements continued, flashing through them with a practiced ease until he was well into the fifth word.

Wilson walked into his office the proper way, from the hall. He sighed, "House, you know that I can't read your silly little flag signals. We've been over this."

House craned his neck around to look at him. "Yeah, but I think that your secretary can. She's been watching me make them ever since you left your office over there."

"Having connecting balconies is a responsibility, House," Wilson said sternly. "You promised me last time that you wouldn't abuse that responsibility, didn't you?"

House pouted at him.

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "What was the message?"

"What message?"

"The message that you were trying to tell me with the flags."

"Oh, I was just trying to get you to come in here. It worked surprisingly well, considering that neither of us knows a single flag sign."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Why?_"

House pointed at the ground near his feet, where his cane lay helplessly. "I leaned Cane-y against my desk and he fell down. Will you get him for me?"

Wilson obligingly handed the cane back to him. "There. Will you stop, now? I actually have work on a daily basis, you know."

"Oh, yes. I promise."

Wilson nodded, not trusting him all the way. "Right. Okay then, thanks." He disappeared about out he door.

House managed to sink into his chair and looked into Wilson's office window for when he would get back. Good thing he hadn't noticed the tin-can telephones…

…Yet.


	32. Med School

Sorry it's been so long! The episodes... have not exactly been inspiring me with HouseWilson bunnies, you know?

* * *

When Greg got into med school, he had his life planned out.

He was going to be rude, ace all his exams, and attend exactly zero classes.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

He was fresh out of a pre-med bachelor's degree, the best that he could get into on scholarships and being in the ninety-ninth percentile in everything.

The first four years of college had been heaven. Girls, booze from friends who though they were going to get As on their midterms, fulfilling his life's goal of flipping off every one of his teachers.

And life was good.

He figured that he would read over the surgery, anatomy, diagnosis, general infection, psychophysiology, and autopsy coursework over the first four weeks or so. Maybe the stuff about oncology, too, but maybe not.

Cancer always did the same thing; blew up like a balloon and sucked The Patient's reserves dry.

(The Patient was the name of the thousands of dollars of books that were stacked under his mattress in lieu of a bedframe.)

Yeah. Skip the cancer.

Greg screwed around. Drank some more, only minus the soon-to-be enemies now that he was finally old enough to grow some stubble and flash his I've-graduated-more-times-than-your-entire-family University ID card.

Who cared if he had wound up with that ID card four years earlier than most?

The world was his oyster.

His first midterm – his first look at the inside of the classrooms – was a slap to the face.

He answered questions, wrote essays about ethics and how to question The Patient (as comfy as he was) about symptoms.

A hundred other students sat by him, dreaming of helping The Patient evolve into not only more than expensive furniture but a fully-functioning human being.

The weight of their blind naïveté and helpfulness sank in on his soul, needling at him and demanding compassion and sneering and guilting him into doctoring for all the right reasons, instead.

Greg House nearly stood up and told his teachers about not even recognizing their faces.

He also nearly went into a monastery.

Bull. Shit.

He went home that day to crash on The Patient and, just for effect, piss on the graves by the church down the street.


	33. Lying

Out of all the things I need to do, _this_ is what I accomplish?

Lordy.

* * *

Wilson was falling through his paperwork in a sort of determined avalanche. Melanoma, leukemia, lymphoma. Non-terminal, remission, nine months to a year. No major thought involved.

Cameron pushed the door of his office open briskly, stamped into the center of his office straight away, and announced, "I've figured out what it is that pisses me off about House so much."

Wilson was quiet and still for a moment, and then he leaned back in his chair but was quiet for a little longer, and then he breathed out slowly and hazarded, "It's just for one reason?"

"It's the way he steers conversations away from himself! He never answers questions with anything other than 'yes' or 'no', unless he can quote it from a textbook."

Wilson took a slow look around his office for hidden cameras. "...Yes…that's what House _does_."

"I don't think I've gotten more than five personal pieces of information from him in three years! Apparently, growing up he had no friends, family, parents…"

"Um. You've _met_ House before, I'm pretty sure."

She threw her arms up. "How can you possibly live with him?"

Wilson smiled, somewhat guiltily. "Well. Suppressing my curiosity?"

She just shook her head, exasperated, and stalked out again.

Wilson leaned back against the pliable spine of his chair. House.

Yes, he had a way of giving people information.

Wilson like to think of it as the letting-them-assume-something-and-then-running-with-it style.

Also shortened to 'lying'.

So, there were truths in the things House told others. The trick was getting to the truth without being trapped into assuming something else first.

It just took a little practice.

And being very good as suppressing curiosity until it was worth the fight for information.


End file.
